


Dreams Of Hope

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Drama, Homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beset by Morgul demons, Faramir first meets Estel in his dreams. Adult rating for violence, horror, sexual situations. Warning: Homoerotic content aka slash, sibcest.</p><p>Follows: Shining One, Riderless, Roads Forgotten, Free Lords of the Free, Find the Sun</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams Of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Warning: Slash, sibcest._

***

At first, Faramir found everything reassuringly familiar. He walked the road from the Citadel down to the stables on the sixth level of the city, a road he had walked hundreds of times before. It was early morning, the city walls still shielding him from the rays of the rising sun. The air was chill and his breath frosted as he walked.

He was preoccupied with getting to the stables, saddling and bridling his horse, then riding out to the Rammas Echor. Worry gnawed at him; were the repairs to the northern stretch of the great wall complete, where their foes would beset them if Cair Andros fell? As he arrived at the stables, hearing the welcoming whinny of his mare, a voice called his name, and he turned, happy at the interruption. Boromir.

Unease touched him for a moment. Had not Boromir been away? When had he come home? He forgot his misgivings when his brother caught up to him, embracing him tightly, kissing his cheeks, Boromir’s usual greeting to Faramir when the brothers had parted for a time. They both laughed for no discernible reason, and held each other at arm’s length for a moment.

Faramir felt Boromir’s gaze inspect him, as it always did after an absence. He knew what his brother was looking for, and, as usual, he complied, lightly stroking his fingers across his brother’s left palm before releasing him. With a dozen stable hands and soldiers nearby, he could do no more. As he turned away, he saw Boromir’s lips part, a sigh escaping him.

He and Boromir strode out the last city gate into the Pelennor. What had happened to their horses? Faramir was confused for a moment, then accepted that they were going to walk. And why not: it was a beautiful day. The northern wall was five leagues away, an easy journey for them, though he wondered briefly where they would stay the night. The distance was too great for them to return to the city before nightfall.

Faramir took a deep breath. Although Ithilien had become homelike to him, the scent of the Pelennor -- wood smoke, barns stuffed with dried fodder, wet earth -- soothed him, a smell he had known all his life. Behind them, the city was a reassuring bulk, the white walls turning golden in the sun’s first light.

They walked through the rich farmland, the turf unnaturally springy and soft. With each step, Faramir went higher into the air, as if he would sail up, lose contact with the earth. He walked cautiously, attempting to set his feet down lightly; it would be embarrassing if Boromir saw him floating above the ground. But the slow, careful movement made things worse. The ground sucked at his feet, and his legs were heavy. He panicked for a moment. Could he move his legs at all? He looked down at his strangely unwilling limbs.

And noticed, in that downward glance, that Boromir wore no boots. Faramir’s faint worries that morning sharpened into dread. He halted. Boromir stopped his rapid stride, waiting for him. His brother was smiling joyously, full of happiness at the moment, so much so that Faramir feared telling him about his bare feet. How had Boromir walked so far without noticing?

“Boromir. Your boots.” Faramir spoke with effort. His tongue and lips felt stiff, as if he had not spoken for years. Boromir did not look down, the natural response to his words, frightening Faramir further. Boromir’s smile faded, and his face grew pale. Faramir rushed to him, for the paleness was not endurable in a living man.

He was too late. “Boromir,” he cried. “You’re dead.” Boromir looked down at the wounds blossoming on his chest. His face was white, too white to be living. Yet he stood, looking at Faramir with terrible sadness. As Faramir sought to hold him, to support him, Boromir stayed, somehow, just out of reach. “No!” Faramir screamed when blood gushed from Boromir’s mouth, and the lifeless body toppled over.

***

In the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, Gandalf, Imrahil, Pippin, and Aragorn looked down on Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor. If not for Faramir’s burning skin, Aragorn would have thought Faramir dead, the man was so pale and lifeless, resting on the bed as still as if he were in a tomb.

“You must tell me all you can of his days before he fell to this Shadow,” Aragorn said to Pippin. He looked at Gandalf and Imrahil to include them in his request.

There was much Aragorn knew already of Faramir’s plight. For months, as they travelled South with the Ringbearer, Boromir spoke to Aragorn of his brother, his father, and his city, Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard. And, yet further back in his memories, Aragorn recalled his service to the Steward Ecthelion II, and his untrusting son, Denethor. The sons of Denethor had felt keenly that failure to satisfy the harsh demands of their father would result in cold actions and colder words.

Gandalf spoke first, telling of Denethor’s rejection of Faramir in the days leading up to the assault on the city of Minas Tirith by the forces of Mordor. Denethor had, in word and deed, shown to his youngest son Faramir that he had held his eldest son, Boromir, in higher regard. Aragorn listened sadly as Pippin and the others confirmed that Denethor had driven Faramir on, even as the darkness overcame him.

Everything Aragorn heard about Faramir led him to admire and pity the young man lying before him. Faramir had fought the shadows for days, staying with the soldiers who served him, as the Black Breath of Morgul slowly mastered him.

Aragorn put his hands on Pippin’s shoulders and squeezed as he heard the tale of Pippin’s role in rescuing Faramir from the funeral pyre, where Denethor would have burned him to death as he lay helpless.

After Aragorn examined Faramir’s two-day old wound closely, he confirmed that it had come from a Southron arrow or dart, as Imrahil and the others thought. Aragorn added, “If he had been smitten by some dart of the Nazgul, he would have died that very night.”

Pippin wondered at that, recalling the wound from the Morgul blade that Frodo had borne for days. But his usual hobbit pertness, as Gandalf called it, deserted him at the sight of Faramir so close to death. For the first time since Aragorn had arrived in the city, Pippin despaired for the young man’s life.

The men and Gandalf left the room for a council of war. Pippin knelt by the bed and took one of Faramir’s hands in his. The bed on which the steward lay was soft, draped with fine woolen bedclothes. Faramir’s every need was tended to. The women who served in the house washed him carefully twice a day with cool water, then dressed him in fresh linen. They spooned water and broth into his mouth, wiping up what spilled down his chin.

Pippin fought back a sob as he considered it might not be enough. Faramir had lain in a fever for two days, his life stolen by a Shadow.

***  
Faramir woke. Or had he? It was difficult to tell, for it was dark around him. Was it night? He opened his eyes, then shut them. Someone was near, someone waiting for him to wake. Fear stabbed him, and his shoulder throbbed. The pain was hot, icy, burning. He writhed helplessly as the pain grew, but he could not cry out, for his mouth was stiff, his dry tongue like a foreign body between his teeth.

“Awake, Faramir, son of Denethor,” a cold voice whispered. Faramir opened his eyes. In the midst of the blackness, there was a deadly light, far off. He could sense the evilness of it, though it was remote. The cold voice laughed; the sound hit Faramir in every vein with agony. “Do you wish to see your brother again? Your father? I can give that to you.”

Faramir struggled to speak. “I want nothing you can give me,” he said, pushing the words out of his frozen lips. _Father is dead?_

“All I can give you is death,” said the cold voice. “Soon you will know the blackness to which your brother and father have gone.”

“No!,” Faramir cried, and for once the words came easily from his lips. “You are of the Void, and you cannot touch them; they have escaped you forever.”

There was a horrible noise, like a wild animal being skewered alive. “You will have death,” the voice screamed, so loud it stunned Faramir’s senses. Pain shot through his skull, and his mind went dark.

***

When he opened his eyes again, he was waist deep in water. He looked about him, quickly recognizing the location: the Anduin as it flowed past North Ithilien. Why had he waded into the river? He stood, bewildered, gently buffeted by the current.

Then he saw Boromir at rest in the Elven boat. The boat was low in the water, half sunken; Boromir floated in the glowing water inside the boat, his face peaceful. Beautiful. As Faramir watched, the boat came up to him, nudging him, like a horse asking to go home. Carefully, he reached into the boat and lifted Boromir. Boromir was lighter than he had been in life, yet Faramir was hard tasked to carry him. He laid his brother out on the soft green grass on the river bank.

Boromir lay on the grass as peacefully as he had lain in the boat. Faramir could not see the wounds on Boromir’s body. Why they were missing, he did not know; he knew only that he was grateful.

He waded into the river again to draw the boat to shore, but it was gone. He looked down the river; there was no sign of it. He would have gone in pursuit of it if Boromir did not now lie so near.

He returned to his fallen brother and knelt by him. Cool tears slid down Faramir’s face. He closed his eyes and tried to say a prayer. No words came to him. He could think only of Boromir’s smile.

“Do not weep for me, brother.” Boromir’s voice. Faramir’s eyes flew open. Boromir was resting on his elbows on the grass, legs stretched out, his face flushed with life. Faramir saw his chest expand as he drew breath.

“Do not weep for me, for I live. Do not listen to the dark voices that tell you otherwise,” Boromir said gently. He sat up, then held out a hand. Faramir stood, took it, and pulled him to his feet. Faramir struggled not to weep wildly in relief: his beloved brother lived. Boromir reached out a hand to him and lifted his hair up off his neck, letting it fall back gently, tickling his skin. Faramir’s tears broke at the familiar caress.

Boromir smiled patiently as Faramir struggled to master himself. With each passing moment, he grew more solid, more alive. Boromir grinned. “I promised you that you would see me again,” he said.

He gripped Faramir’s arms above the wrists; Faramir gripped him back. He saw Boromir’s questioning gaze, and responded, turning his hands and brushing both of Boromir’s palms with his fingertips. _I love you._

For long years, they had communicated thus, depending on the circumstances of their meeting. In greater privacy, Boromir would risk kissing his mouth, not considered outlandish between grown brothers in Gondor, yet they avoided it, for it was difficult for them to do so without betraying themselves. Over the years, they found hidden touches to show their feelings. Sometimes, when Boromir kissed his cheek, his lips would briefly graze Faramir’s ear. A hand resting on an arm would slip to a waist. Once, on a rare occasion when they were seated beside each other at a meal, Boromir had taken his hand and entwined their fingers in his lap.

He could see by the look in Boromir’s eyes that his brother was thinking the same thoughts, and one more: that they were far away from any prying eyes. Boromir placed his hands on Faramir’s face, cupping it, and gently kissed him. Their mouths stayed closed, but no one who saw the kiss would mistake it for a familial caress. Their bodies pressed tightly together, and Faramir dropped his arms to encircle Boromir’s waist.

Faramir’s breath caught at Boromir’s expression; when they had parted the year before, Boromir leaving to seek Imladris, they had let down their guard and spent the night in each other’s arms. Boromir’s face was saying clearly: _Give me more_. He slid a hand to the end of Faramir’s spine, pulling him close.

“My love,” Boromir said, his voice full of want and desire. Faramir could not stop himself. A voice inside him told him it was too soon -- Boromir had not been…well. Did he not need rest? His hunger for his brother’s arms and lips overwhelmed his concern, and he wrapped his arms around Boromir, kissing him hard.

The lips kissing him back were sweet, the breath as fresh as a stream high up in the mountains. Boromir’s skin felt cool, pleasantly so. Faramir wanted to feel that cool skin all along his body. He pulled Boromir’s clothing off, Boromir helping him to remove his own, his face rapt, as if he were looking at what he loved and desired most in the world.

They stood, naked, kissing, at the side of the river. Suddenly Boromir’s eyes were mischievous. “Let’s swim,” he said. He picked Faramir up in his arms and waded into the water. Faramir rested his head against Boromir’s chest, relishing the cool bare skin against him. Boromir set him down and they stood waist deep in the water. Boromir embraced him again, and kissed him in earnest, his tongue pushing past Faramir’s. Faramir groaned into his mouth as their bodies touched. Thighs, belly, chest. Their toes squished into the mud.

“I love you,” Boromir said. Faramir felt peace wash over him. He could stay there forever, the cool river flowing softly past, Boromir’s skin against his. “I love you more than anything,” he said to Boromir, and knew it was true.

“Let me love you,” Boromir whispered. He took Faramir’s hand and led him to shallower waters, no deeper than their knees. Boromir knelt in the water, putting his hot mouth on Faramir, far hotter than his skin or the cool river. Boromir’s hands were on the backs of his thighs, and Faramir closed his eyes as the pleasure moved through him.

The feeling was soothing, which surprised him. It was nothing like the scorching desire that had flashed through him when they had lain together for the first, and only, time. He surrendered to it, and gradually the pleasure grew. He put his hands on Boromir’s shoulders to steady himself. The mouth on him was demanding, forceful.

As the pleasure increased, he rose up on the balls of his feet, his leg muscles tightening, thrusting his hips forward. Boromir gave a groan of desire, and the sound vibrated through Faramir’s flesh. Finally the pleasure peaked, and it was like fire running through him. He felt his body burning, Boromir sucking hard so that not a drop escaped.

Faramir pulled away, panting, struggling to keep his feet, then realized there was no point to it, and sank down in the water next to Boromir.

Boromir smiled at him, but he did not look as well as he had moments before.

His skin had grown paler, waxy. Faramir reached for him, alarmed, as Boromir lay back in the water, stretching out as if exhausted, letting the current pull at him. Boromir’s features grew and blurred; his body swelled; his skin turned grey, then a livid white; a foul stench assaulted Faramir’s nostrils. Before he could touch Boromir, his brother’s body became a hideous mass, like the body of a drowned fisherman pulled out of the Anduin after a fortnight. The horrible bloated thing moved; its arms reached out to him. “Faramir, I love you,” said the wreck of his brother’s face.

Faramir scrambled backwards into deeper water, swifter current. He screamed as the monstrous thing moved after him. He fell, and the water took him, pouring down his throat, drowning his screams. _The Valar save me_ , he begged. _Let me die_.

A cold laugh was the last thing he heard as the water smothered him.

***

Pippin spent the day in the Houses of Healing, going back and forth between Merry and Faramir. He had even spent some time by Eowyn, though he did not know her well; he felt that Merry would have wanted it. He returned to Faramir’s bedside towards the end of the day. He took the man’s left hand and held it with both of his.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Captain Faramir,” he whispered. “Strider is here now. He’ll take care of you. He fixed Frodo up, after Weathertop, and he’s going to fix up Merry, and Eowyn. I’m sorry, you don’t know them yet.” Pippin rested his cheek on Faramir’s hand, and, unnoticed, his tears soaked it. Something in him told him that Faramir must not be left alone. He kept talking, muttering bits of songs and rhymes when words failed him. At last grief overwhelmed him, and he threw himself down, resting his head on Faramir’s left arm, and sobbed. “Come back. Come back.”

***  
“Do not fear me, Faramir,” said a hesitant voice.

Faramir whirled around and choked down a scream of terror when he saw Boromir. His brother was dressed as a Guard of the Citadel. There were no marks on him; he appeared as he had before leaving to Imladris, or perhaps a few years earlier. There were fewer lines of care on his face.

“Stay away from me,” Faramir said through a throat constricted with fear. He looked about frantically; he did not recognize his whereabouts: high up on a hill, and far below a mighty river flowed out of a great lake. For a moment, the beauty of the setting calmed him. Then he took a sharp breath; he could see the isle of Tol Brandir and the falls of Rauros. He had never seen them in life, but such a distinctive landmark could not be mistaken. He was on Amon Hen, where Boromir had perished, fighting Orcs, protecting the Halflings.

He turned to face Boromir, raising his arms to defend himself. Boromir stood twenty feet away. “I am too late,” he said, watching Faramir back away from him. Tears ran down Boromir’s face. “Brother, you are burning.” He lifted his hands to Faramir.

Faramir laughed, a wild, frightened sound. “Stay away from me. You’re dead.”

“Yes, I am dead,” Boromir said gently.

Faramir stared at him suspiciously. “How do I know you are dead?” he asked.

Boromir hesitated. “I do not know how you can tell,” he admitted.

Faramir laughed, this time bitterly. “You are doing much better this time, lie of Morgul. Almost, I believe you are my brother.”

He watched the shade that looked like Boromir sit down heavily on the hillside. Its head bowed and its back shook as it wept. Finally, the Boromir shade stood. Its words started slowly, gaining in power.

“Faramir, look for hope. Hope will come to you even here, as you lie burning, with fire in your veins. Hope. You will know him by his star.”

Faramir frowned at the gibberish, then his face contorted with pain as he grew fiercely hot. The air in his lungs was withering, burning. The Boromir shade took a step towards him. Faramir cried out in fear.

It retreated, and tears came from its false eyes. “Will you let me come again?” The voice, so like his brother’s, yet somehow richer, deeper, was imploring.

“No,” Faramir said. “You are loathsome to me. A demon. A lie to torment me.” He flinched when the Boromir shade vanished, leaving him alone on the hillside. The heat flared in him again, but it seemed one arm was cooler, the left, and he felt a moment of peace, as if he were falling gently into a natural, restful sleep.

***

Aragorn knelt by Faramir’s bedside. He had not yet found any athelas in the city, but time was growing short; he dared not wait any longer. He laid a hand on the steward’s forehead, closed his eyes, and followed Faramir into the darkness.

***

“Wake up, boy.” Faramir opened his eyes at the sound of his father’s voice. He was in his rooms adjoining the King’s House, in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. His father sat by his bedside, looking weary, yet his face was kind. “I have spent much strength, waiting for you to recover.”

Faramir eyed Denethor suspiciously. There was nothing fey about him, though it was unusual for his father to regard him with affection.

“What happened to me?” Faramir asked, hesitant.

“The fool of a Ranger claimed you were not struck by a foul weapon of the Morgul riders -- I knew better. Yet, he has some skill in healing, for you are recovering. You have been in a fever three days.”

“What Ranger are you talking about, father?”

Denethor looked displeased. The sight was reassuringly commonplace. “Let us not speak of him, my son.” Denethor’s eyes flared with anger. “He claims to be Isildur’s Heir!” His voice was full of scorn.

“He is the king?” Faramir asked, shocked.

“He is no king. He is nothing but the bedraggled chief of wretched Rangers. The Grey Pilgrim is behind him, however, so it will be no simple matter to get rid of him.”

Faramir smiled. His father was so comfortingly contrary. “I’ve missed you, father,” he said.

His father took his hand. “My son.” His voice held more love than Faramir had ever heard, more, even, than when his father had addressed Boromir in the past. The thought of Boromir made Faramir jump.

He narrowed his eyes at Denethor. “What of Boromir?” he said, making the question purposefully vague.

Denethor looked distraught. “The fever has played tricks with your mind, I fear. Boromir is dead; he fell on the borders of our land. On that foul errand I sent him on.” Denethor bowed his head in grief.

Faramir felt tears in his own eyes, tears of relief as well as of mourning. The Morgul shades were gone. He was back in a world of grief and death and sorrow, his world. He was safe.

His father rose and fetched two unlit lanterns from the fireplace mantel and set them on the floor. “My son, I am sorry I abandoned you,” he muttered. “I should not have left you behind.”

Faramir smiled uncertainly. “You are with me now, father.”

“Ah, yes. We shall be together always.” There was a terrible yearning in Denethor’s face, and Faramir was moved. He had not known how deeply his father loved him.

Denethor grasped the coverlets loosely draping Faramir, pulling them down to his knees. Faramir frowned, for he was naked below the bedclothes. The cold air in the room bit his skin; he shivered hard, his teeth chattering.

He watched, confused, as Denethor lifted a candle from the table by the bedside. Smiling gently, his father tilted the candle. “Faramir, my boy, one thing still lies between us that I would have out before the end.” Hot wax fell on Faramir’s chest. Faramir sucked in a breath at the sudden pain.

Faramir’s muscles tensed to flee, his movement stopping with a jerk; his hands and feet were tied to the bed. He pulled at the leather bonds, straining to get out of them. Denethor tilted the candle again. Faramir hissed as the wax landed on his left nipple.

He struggled and cried out while Denethor continued dripping the hot wax on his chest, his stomach, his thighs. “Faramir,” his father said with gentle remonstrance, as if he could not understand Faramir’s silence over such a trifle. “Tell me of Boromir. Did you lie with him?”

Faramir writhed when the hot wax landed close to his groin.

_Boromir, my beloved._ For a short, blessed moment, he felt Boromir’s fingertips gently stroking the abused flesh of his body. Make the pain go away, love, yes, touch me…Faramir let out a desperate moan, half passion, half fear, when he saw Boromir kneeling next to the bed. His brother’s fingers trailed over his body, leaving desire behind. He was naked from the waist up, and Faramir could see sweat gleaming on his chest. Behind him, Denethor stood, holding the candle.

Faramir closed his eyes as the fingertips caressed him. _They are not here. Neither of them are here._ His body arched into the touch as it moved between his legs. One hand stroked his chest as the other wrapped around his growing hardness. Boromir’s lips touched his ear. A tight squeeze of Boromir’s hand left him rigid.

He fought a scream when hot wax dripped between his thighs, Denethor regarding him with mild disappointment. As soon as the pain faded, fingertips caressed him.

Over and over, the hands roused him, and the wax burned him. The pain and pleasure blended into a single, agonizing sensation. After an uncountable number of repetitions, when the wax hit his flesh, he stayed hard. Nay, he grew harder. The twin tortures became one. He pushed equally towards the hands stroking him and the flaming wax falling. It seemed impossible that so much feeling could come from two hands and one candle. The wax hit him from knees to neck; the hands grasped at every inch of his body. He screamed as he came.

Faramir gulped in air when the torture ceased. The Boromir demon was gone.

Denethor opened the tops of the two lamps. Deliberately, he drizzled the oil in the lamps over Faramir’s weakly struggling body.

“We shall burn, Faramir,” his father said, love softening his voice. “Come with me. Boromir is waiting for you.”

“No!” Faramir cried, thrashing. Darkness billowed from Denethor, filling the room. The shape of his father reformed into a gigantic burning corpse.

“Burn, Faramir,” the cold voice said.

Hot wax from the candle dripped on him and flames sprang up. He could smell his hair catch on fire.

“We are waiting for you, Boromir and I.”

The flames leapt up as they fed on the blankets. Faramir felt the heat burning into him, his skin cracking, blood pouring out of the cracks…

He screamed from the depths of his soul, nothing left but the horror. A pit of blackness yawned below him, and he struggled not to pitch into it. A faint light came in the darkness, giving him hope. The pit slammed shut below him.

As his scream died away, he could no longer feel his flesh burn. The foul stench of burning hair was gone.

He opened his eyes, thankful he still had eyes to open, and saw the light that had come between him and the pit. This was not the foul light from before; it was as if a star had come into his room. The Denethor shade had vanished.

He sat up on the bed. The bonds were gone. He was whole, unmarked. The lanterns were back on the mantel. The star in the room shrank, narrowed, and he could see what brought it. The form of a man advanced, the star on his forehead giving off a powerful light.

Elendil? Faramir thought wonderingly. “Who are you?” he whispered. He shrank back on the bed. The glowing star on the man’s forehead kept Faramir from seeing his face.

The apparition finally spoke. “I am called Estel.” Hope. It meant nothing to him. Then he remembered the words of the Boromir demon. He moved back on the bed, crouching naked on top of it, his back to the wall. He looked around the room for something he could use as a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer. Show your face!” Faramir was frightened, yet he felt new strength coming to him from somewhere in the room. Whatever this thing was, he would meet it without cowering.

The man stopped. Faramir saw hands outlined against the light, and then the star moved, was extinguished.

Faramir swallowed, his mouth dry. The demon before him was more beautiful than any man he had ever beheld. His dark hair framed a face that glowed with wisdom and compassion. His blue-grey eyes looked levelly at Faramir. Faramir gazed at the soft lips in the majestic face and his breath quickened.

Shaking his head, he attempted to move farther away, although his back was already to the wall. “At least _your_ purpose is plain, demon.” Faramir said, glancing from the demon’s eyes to the bed. “Come and take me, then rip out my throat with your fangs, or whatever it is that is in your foul nature.”

The demon Estel looked at him sorrowfully. “Have you been beset by demons?”

Faramir laughed harshly. “None as beautiful as you. Most have come in the guise of those I love.” He lay down on the bed, curling into himself. Hysterical laughter built in him. He suppressed it with great effort. “This time, I may find enjoyment, at least. Come, do not delay. You shall become a werewolf, or worse, any moment, and I would rather be taken by you in your current shape.”

The demon moved towards him uncertainly. “What is it that you want me to do?”

“Want? What does it matter, what I want? You seduce me first, then slay me in some foul manner, at the moment of greatest pleasure. At least I have never seen your face before.”

The demon Estel looked stricken.

Faramir laughed, and trembled at the madness in the sound. “You are a strange demon. Beautiful and kind.”

Cautiously, it seemed, the demon Estel moved closer to him. For the first time, Faramir noticed Estel’s clothing. It was old and worn, though well made. There was a small star on his cloak, the star of the Rangers of the North.

“You are a Ranger?” Faramir asked.

The demon said, “Yes. My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“I’m Faramir,” he said faintly, shyness overcoming him as the beautiful demon drew close.

The demon smiled. There was no hint of fangs in the smile. “I know who you are, my brave steward,” it said.

Faramir saw love in Estel’s face, and felt something shift within him. Estel sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached out a hand to touch Faramir’s forehead. Faramir sighed with pleasure; the hand was cool and comforting.

Faramir stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, the soothing hand on his brow filling him with peace. “That’s good,” he said inadequately. He opened his eyes, sat next to Estel on the edge of the bed, and kissed him softly on the lips. The demon looked nervous. “For a foul lie of Morgul, you are strangely unsure of yourself,” Faramir said.

Estel spoke slowly. “I am not a lie, nor a demon. I am a man.”

Faramir smiled, his desire surging for the beautiful being, demon or no. He embraced Estel and kissed him again, harder, then straddled Estel, sitting on his lap. His fingers worked at the man’s clothing. Estel lay back on the bed and let himself be stripped.

Once he had Estel naked, he saw Estel’s eyes fix on his wound. Faramir let out a soft cry as an image came to his mind: Estel fastening his lips to the wound, his beautiful face changing to that of a beast…

He forced himself to keep his eyes on Estel’s face, drinking in its beauty, its love. He straddled the prone man again, enjoying the sensation of bare flesh meeting.

“You are the most ravishing being I have ever seen,” Faramir whispered. He bent forward and kissed Estel. At last, Estel kissed him back. Estel’s fingertips fluttered over his chest, stroking it. The flesh below Faramir stirred and grew hard. Faramir slid back and forth on top of it. He locked his hands behind the man’s neck and thrust his tongue into the soft, warm mouth. The demon’s tongue fought him unsuccessfully.

Slowly, Faramir stretched out full length on top of Estel. The look on Estel’s face made him laugh. “You are an exceedingly imperfect demon,” he said. He wet Estel and himself with his mouth and fingers, then lowered himself onto the man, moving cautiously, adjusting the angle. Pleasure flooded through him, and involuntarily he pushed all the way down, impaling himself.

He rocked back and forth slowly. Estel grabbed his hips and pushed up into him. Faramir moved his body faster, coming down as hard as he could on each stroke, Estel pushing up at exactly the right moment.

In spite of the intense pleasure, or perhaps because of it, Faramir had great difficulty moving. Each time he lowered himself, it was harder to move back up. “I can’t,” he gasped. Weariness overcame him. He felt like weeping.

Estel gently pushed him off and to the side, rolling him onto his stomach. Faramir tried to raise his hips but could not. A hand reached under him and stroked him. Estel entered him and thrust hard. Faramir breathed raggedly. “Please. I can’t,” he groaned. He feared that his release would shatter him. Even as he felt his last bit of strength fail, his body betrayed him, his hips lifting up so that Estel could reach beneath him to stroke him, pound into him faster.

All of the pleasure flowing through his body centered in two places: the part of his body surrounding Estel, and the part of him surrounded by Estel’s hand. He cried out weakly as his climax took him. He felt Estel jerk, pulsing inside him, his body collapsing on top of Faramir. Strangely, he felt Estel’s cooling hand still on his brow.

Estel rolled off him and Faramir turned over to embrace him. He forgot that the man was a demon; he wanted to rain kisses all over him. He drew back, shocked, at the suffering on the man’s face.

Estel’s face was grey with weariness. Faramir wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly. He felt frightened, as frightened as he had felt years ago, when he had been told his mother was gone.

“Faramir,” Estel said, his voice sounding as faint as if it came from below the sea. “Please, my steward, leave these shadows…”

Faramir kissed him softly. “I shall, my king.” King? Where had that thought come from? Of course: Estel had called him “my steward.” Only the king would call him that. He must be the Ranger, the healer, Denethor had spoken of. “Are you here to heal me?”

“Yes. Leave this darkness. I will have need of you.”

“Command me, and I will come.” Faramir held Estel tightly. A breath came into the room. At first a gentle breeze, it turned into a roaring wind. It was like the first Springtime of the World, a breath of air from Aman. It swept away the mists from Faramir’s mind. He fell back on the bed, swooning. “Come back with me, Faramir,” he heard the king say, softly, in his mind.

Then he was waking.

He opened his eyes and saw Estel bending over him.

Faramir looked at him, his face full of love. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

***

Alone again, Faramir lay back, exhausted, although now his weariness felt wholesome, the gentle tiredness one has while on the mend from an illness. Aragorn had bid the healers to build a small banked fire in his room, and a pot of water and athelas over it steamed fragrantly. He knew he could sleep through the night without fear. He smiled when Pippin came into the room, the Halfling crying out with joy on seeing the steward awake.

***

Later that night, after taking council with Gandalf and the others concerning their next move in the war against Sauron, Aragorn returned to the Houses of Healing to check on his charges. He found Merry in good spirits, Eowyn less so, her eyes cast down, her words still without hope. He left her with Eomer, then went to see Faramir last. The steward’s recovery was not assured in Aragorn’s mind, for the manner of his father’s death had been kept from him, as well as Denethor’s attempt to murder him.

Pippin was sitting up on Faramir’s bed, talking in a lively manner, the steward listening with a kind smile. “Pippin,” Aragorn said, more sharply than he intended. He caught himself. “Have you spent time with Merry this evening?” he said.

“Yes, the Knight of the Riddermark is doing very well, thank you.” Pippin laughed and jumped down from the bed. Aragorn took his place on Faramir’s bed, laying his hand on Faramir’s forehead. Faramir closed his eyes and smiled.

“I remember you doing that, my lord.”

Aragorn was surprised; he knew little of what had happened. When he had entered the darkness, his mind had clouded. All he could recall was walking through a freezing mist, calling Faramir’s name.

“You can remember my coming to you when you were…elsewhere?”

“Yes,” Faramir said.

Aragorn tried to understand the strong emotion in the steward’s reply. He took Faramir’s hands in his own. “You fought valiantly, my steward,” he said. He was puzzled by the look of pain on Faramir’s face.

“I almost failed,” Faramir whispered. “When I remember it, I sometimes wish that I had. My father’s death…I know of how he died, though you have not spoken of it.”

Aragorn stroked his hands, feeling pity for the young man. “He was not himself. You may not know this: he looked into a forgotten Palantir in the White Tower, and his mind was ensnared by the Enemy.”

Faramir did not know that, judging by his grateful reaction, Aragorn thought. “Thank you for telling me that, my king.”

Aragorn reddened. “Please do not call me that. I have vowed that Sauron must fall before I ask for the crown of Gondor.”

Faramir pulled Aragorn’s hands to his mouth and kissed them. “I have seen you in your true guise, my lord…Estel,” he whispered. “You are the king. I know it.”

Aragorn, heart thudding, bent down to kiss the steward’s forehead. Faramir caused a powerful emotion in him; he was unsure what it was. He knew, however, that he was grateful that this was the man who would rule by his side, if they were successful against the Enemy. Faramir’s hands clasped behind his neck, holding him close. The steward kissed him on the lips, harder than Aragorn expected. Almost, it seemed, that Faramir’s lips were parting, and his tongue…

Aragorn pulled away, breathing fast. He took Faramir’s hands, squeezed them, stood abruptly, then made ready to leave. At the door, he turned for a last look, and Faramir saw the confusion on his face.

_He remembers none of it…or what he does remember is not what I remember_ , Faramir realized, aghast.

Pippin had watched them both, looking confused. He saw Faramir’s distress and clambered back up on the bed, throwing his arms around Faramir, hugging him. Faramir clutched at the offer of comfort. _Illness makes weaklings of us all. But I know better than any that it takes more strength to accept help than to refuse it. And greater strength to ask for it._

Pippin’s eyes twinkled. “He _is_ the king, you know,” he said conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, you can talk to me about it.” At Faramir’s request, Pippin resumed his tale of the Fellowship’s journey. Faramir had heard a similar account from Frodo and Sam, but he could not hear enough about his brother. And he wished to know more of Aragorn, whom Frodo had largely left out of his tale. Faramir thought of Boromir’s travels with Aragorn and felt a touch of envy. For which man, he did not know.

***

Faramir woke. No, he was not awake, he was dreaming. He felt calmed at knowing the difference. He was once again on the high hill, Rauros rumbling below.

He saw a crumbling structure at the top of the hill and headed towards it. It was Amon Hen, the Seat of Seeing. He was not near the path that led to it, so he struggled through the thick grass and tangled trees.

At last he reached the top, and stood in the flat circle paved with large stones. He looked at the seat, but did not go up to it. He examined his unease, and knew he feared to see Boromir. Did he need to fear it? Were not the Morgul demons driven out, defeated, by Estel? He ran up the steps and sat down. He looked down the decaying path and saw a man leaping up the steps far below. When the man lifted his head and called Faramir’s name, he could see it was Boromir. He sat steadily on the seat, waiting, feeling strength in the old stones.

Boromir drew near rapidly. He was wearing a traveling cloak. He looked younger than he had when Faramir had last seen the Boromir shade on the hillside, and, at that moment, Faramir understood that this Boromir was the real one.

Boromir raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, with the energy of youth. He looked twenty years of age, more beautiful than any memory. When he reached the top of the steps, he stopped and smiled. “Thank you for letting me come back, brother.”

“Thank you for bringing Estel to me, brother,” Faramir said softly. Boromir grinned, then laughed, a hearty guffaw that surprised Faramir, though he could not help but join in it. Boromir sat next to him on the seat, which seemed to have been built for giants. He draped an arm over Faramir’s shoulders, and looked out with him over the world. Both of them kept their eyes from the shadow in the east.

“Sorry for laughing , Faramir, but you should have seen your face!” He chuckled, recalling it. “Like a lovesick maiden.”

“I do not deny it,” Faramir said, trying to sound dignified. “I love him. More than I should.” He sighed. “He does not know. I will not tell him.” Boromir hugged him and kissed Faramir on the forehead.

“I admit that such feeling has become strange to me,” Boromir said. “I love you differently. More, yet it is different. The flesh…the love of the flesh is not there,” he said softly. He ruffled Faramir’s hair. “I will go to the Halls of Mandos. You will not see me again, I think. I do not know for certain.” Faramir started to weep.

“Do not fear your love, Faramir. Do not hold it back. Whether he knows of it or not, it will be there,” Boromir whispered. “Love him as you loved me. Alas, I have gotten no better at saying what I mean.”

“I understand you,” Faramir whispered. He rested his head on Boromir’s shoulder, feeling a great emptiness inside. His brother, gone. It could not be.

“More love is coming to you, Faramir. For you were meant to be loved.” Boromir kissed his brow again. “Pippin, now. He risked his life to save you.” Faramir drew back, surprised.

“Ah, I see they did not tell you all.” Boromir quickly told him of what had taken place in the tombs, leaving Faramir somber.

Stumbling over the words, he told Boromir of the nightmarish vision of Denethor’s attempt to burn him. “And yet, I felt his love for part of it. It was strange, for it was not something I had felt before, Boromir. No doubt you know of what I speak, for father loved you best.”

Boromir shook his head. “He did not, and you know it. He loved me for my obedience, for my strength, for the glory he thought I would bring…to him. He saw me only as a tool he wielded. Would you call that love? I would not. You would not obey, and so he withheld from you that love…if love it can be called.”

Faramir mulled over Boromir’s words and felt overwhelming sadness intermixed with relief. Grief that his father had been so alone; relief that he was not to blame for his father’s estrangement. “I fear you are right, Boromir.” The brothers regarded each other gravely, knowing without speaking what they had always known: that they had filled the void of their father’s indifference with their own love.

Boromir let him go and kissed him gently on the lips, then spoke tenderly: “I must go now. We will meet again, beyond the Circles of the World.” Before Faramir could speak, he was gone, vanished into the sunlight.  



End file.
